'... barbarian heroes generally draw the line at blowing up the world.' He sighed. 'They're usually not civilised enough for that ...' (LH)
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And they acted like savages*.
* Again, when people like Mrs Whitlow use this term they are not, for some inexplicable reason, trying to suggest that the subjects have a rich oral tradition, a complex system of tribal rights and a deep respect for the spirits of their ancestors. They are implying the kind of behaviour more generally associated, oddly enough, with people wearing a full suit of clothes, often with the same insignia. (LC) It was just that she had preferred him when he’d been a Fool. There’s something about a man who tinkles gently as he moves. (LL)
A wizard never had friends, at least not friends who were wizards. It needed a different word. Ah yes, that was it. Enemies. But a very different class of enemies. Gentlemen. (S)
… it is very hard to look dignified with a napkin tucked into one’s collar. (ER)
‘You don’t believe in modesty, do you, Mr Lobsang?’
‘Absolutely not, Henry. Modesty is only arrogance by stealth.’ (LE) 'In an unknown situation always hope for savages. They tend to be quite polite and hospitable provided you don’t make any sudden moves or eat the wrong sort of animals.’
‘What sort of animals?’ said Ridcully. ‘Taboo, sir. They tend to be related. Or something.’ ‘That sounds rather…sophisticated,’said Ponder suspiciously. Savages often are,’ said Rincewind. ‘It’s the civilised people that give you trouble. They always want to drag you off somewhere and ask you unsophisticated questions.' (TG) 'I don’t gallivant! I’ve never gallivanted. I don’t know how to vant! I don’t even have a galli!' (Th)
Some distance away from Madam Frout's in Estoric Street, were a number of gentlemen’s clubs. It would be far too cynical to say that here the term ‘gentleman’ was simply defined as ‘someone who can afford five hundred dollars a year’; they also had to be approved of by a great many other gentlemen who could afford the same fee. (TOT)
'You sir, are no gentleman,’ said Rust.
‘I knew there was something about me that I liked.’ (FE) Grammer Bevis wrinkled her forehead.
‘Magrat?’ she said. She tried to get a mental picture of the Ramtops’ youngest witch and recalled – well, not a face, just a slightly watery-eyed expression of hopeless goodwill wedged between a body like a maypole and hair like a haystack after a gale. A relentless doer of good works. A worrier. The kind of person who rescued small lost baby birds and cried when they died, which is the function kind old Mother Nature usually reserves for small lost baby birds. (WA) She’d have to stop thinking like this. She seemed to have spent her whole life trying to make herself small, trying to be polite, apologizing when people walked over her, trying to be good-mannered. And what had happened? People had treated her as if she was small and polite and good-mannered. (LL)
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